


Scruffy

by imsfire



Series: Celebrate Rogue One characters 2018 [4]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Gen, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, headcanon for Jyn's domestic habits, is puzzling to Jyn, the assumed connection between not being smart-looking and being a slob, who is not smart-looking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 23:47:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14904474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imsfire/pseuds/imsfire
Summary: Jyn discovers there's a general assumption about her domestic habits.  It isn't accurate.





	Scruffy

Why had the woman said that?  She barely knew Jyn yet she ‘d spoken so confidently.  _Oh, we know you’re not interested in this kind of thing, Sergeant._

It bugged her all the way back from the ice-gym.  _You’re not like that._

 _Like what?_ she’d demanded.  Trying hard – so hard - not to sound belligerent.

And that was when the woman said it.  _You’re not interested in this kind of thing._

The other trainer in the class.  Lance-Corporal Alliette Levadis.  A slim, elegant figure, always somehow glamorous and well-put-together.  Even when she’d just got back from a mission on the Outer Rim that would have left most people glad still to have all their own hair and not a burned-off fuzz, Alliette had her bright-coloured hair combed in neat waves.  Perpetually well-groomed Alliette, who everyone admired for some reason.

She’d been showing off her new kit-bag for sports equipment.  Apparently she’d bought it from a Twi’lek trader on Sesukhine.  Not your standard grey or green or camo duffel, but a long tubular bag big enough to hold a full set of practice clothing, racquets and balls for a match, and pads, and a helmet.  It had side pockets for all the small bits like the training wires and wrist protectors, things that could get lost at the bottom of a normal bag; and another pocket for hair things, and a fold-out mirror.  There was even a loop for securing a lip-stain pencil or a mascara wand.  Everything in its place and a place for everything.

It was even a cheerful fabric, a fresh green with a print of yellow fruit.  The design reminded Jyn of jungles, of Onderon and running about as Saw’s “favourite lieutenant”, and the days when it seemed as though maybe there was still some childhood left in her.

But then she’d moved nearer for a closer look, not thinking anything of it; and Alliette had pulled the bag away from her.  _Oh, I’m sorry, Sergeant.  We’re just looking.  We know you’re not interested in this kind of thing._

What was the woman talking about?  Her and her shimmery hair.

She’d tried so hard not to sound grumpy or bellicose.  So carefully, she probed and queried, qualified each question, wrapped her frustration up.  So much care.  _I’m sorry, I’m just curious, I think maybe I’ve misunderstood something, I didn’t mean to pry in your affairs, Lance-Corporal._

Result, embarrassment all round, and explanations and expatiations and obfuscations.  And suddenly, as the trainees mumbled and blurted, she’d got it.  Her clean but utilitarian hair style, her un-ironed clothes, plain solid boots, lack of colour.  Lack of any make-up but the quick swipe of shadow known as Snipers’ eyes.  Her lack of grooming.

No-on had said outright _We know you’re a slob, Sergeant_.  But that had to be what they’d meant.  What that laughing, good-humoured, well-groomed young woman meant.  _You’re scruffy, you don’t care what you look like, we know you don’t approve of having a colourful bag or of having spaces set aside for hair ties and spare ribbons, and wrist protectors. You’re not a girl-girl, who likes pretty things and takes care of how she looks; you’re a scruffy girl.  Nothing in its place for you, and no tidy pockets.  And no lip-stain pencils._

She was home.  Fretting about the damn bag and the damn woman had taken her all the way back to quarters with barely a glance to left or right.

Jyn stood in the doorway of the immaculately tidy room she shared with Cassian Andor, and looked at his and her service duffels, side by side on top of the paired storage lockers.  Both were plain, utilitarian; regulation issue and the no-frills version besides.  Both were kept permanently neatly packed, ready for an immediate deployment or an emergency departure.  What extra clothes they had, and their few personal belongings (less than a dozen small items between them, even if you count gifts as practical as a case for a rifle scope, or a warm knitted scarf) were stored neatly, instantly to hand if there were just two minutes to pack for an evac.  Only non-essentials were kept in the closet; spare pairs of trousers and shirts, Cassian’s back-up parka and her desert-camo poncho, the sand-boots she hadn’t needed since Tatooine and wasn’t likely to need again; and their exercise gear, racquet-ball kit and sports clothes like  the gear Alliette was enjoying toting around in a shiny new bag.

_I’m not a scruffy person.  I’m not a slob.  I’m just – not that interested in the look of things._

_It’s a reach.  Isn’t it?  That if I don’t wear lip-stain or want pretty things to wear and a coloured kit-bag to carry them in, I must be a slob?_

_Why do I even care, if that’s what they think?  Let them think.  So what if I don’t much mind what I look like?  Let them boil their heads if they want._

Jyn went into the ‘fresher and stood looking at herself in the small mirror.  Was she good-looking?  It was very hard to know.  Cassian certainly seemed to find her attractive.  She didn’t mind if anyone else did; after all, she wasn’t looking for anyone else. 

She compressed her lips hard and relaxed them, so that the blood rushed back in and brightened their colour.  What would it be like, to wear lip-stain and jewellery, to colour her hair and style it prettily, to care whether she looked the same as yesterday and last week and last year?

The door opened behind her, and she heard the tail end of the conversation as Cassian and K-2 came in.  Navigational calculations.  How they loved their mathematics, her dear ones.

She went back into the bedroom and reached for her bag, just as Cassian reached for his.  Their hands touched, and their eyes met in a shared smile.

“Where are we off to?”

“Quistaine, via Corulag for an intel drop-off.  Leaving in 20.”

She didn’t need to wear extra make-up or to own pretty things; and she didn’t need to be understood by the people who did need such things.  They were them and she was her.  And all Jyn needed was what she had right now.   She was ready to go.


End file.
